The wagtail’s sweet switch of sound
stripes the darkness beyond my window,
praise of starlings
bubbles up in cool springs, the fallen tree
whose rotten branches cluster round
to comfort her ruin still falls
soundlessly, the rush of descent riffling her leaves.
The tractor with its capable steel cable
sleeps in its shed. Its dream
are pure diesel.
Ants sip thoughtfully
the amber sap, and soon morning will offer
an invisibly-mended sky,
a greater quietness of wind, and children
trailing over the hill with the smaller limbs.